Tag: poem

small talk

A poem.

i can have more
fulfilling conversations
than i ever could
with you
or anyone else
in my head.

sorry.


i can debate me all i want –
fly my freak flag as i ought;
like what i like
and own what i wrought –
without another being judging
whether this connection needs to be dropped.

it’s probably not you

but i hold these truths to be self-proven
over decades of believing i was being suffused
by the bullies & vicarious lifers
we share space with on this moon –
i’m a White guy from Canada,
i know nothing of misuse:
only a sheltered upbringing i use as my excuse
for thirty years of reservations
in feeling removed.

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on my knees

(digging for cheese)

A poem.

some days,
most without even trying,
i take the easy way out:

i get stuck in my thoughts
and spin out of control
not even paying attention

and soon i’m on my knees in the kitchen
hunched over
trying to differentiate between months-old droppings
and fragments of plastic cheese
from the bag of Tex-Mex i just dropped on the floor

because i would rather simply be
trying to do nothing at all just
laying on the couch but
thinking,
dreaming,
praying of being somewhere else,
anywhere,
in another dimension, off there somewhere
where exists what could have happened –

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that one curmudgeonly leaf

A poem.

i’ll have the news on to catch the top stories
but after a few minutes it’s purposeless –
they’re all the same bullet points from yesterday
through a perspection of passing time:

some people died
and one famous about to;
displaced persons from a camp removal;
one’s a terrorist about to be tried;
another one biding to be penalized;
global warming at an all-time high;
random attacks on the rise;
car pile-up on the ninety-nine…

by then all i feel is empty inside:
it sounds like a Saturday night of gaming
than a generation’s place in humankind.
i put a CD i’ve heard a thousand times in the drive
that doesn’t come standard with new models of that type,
because i’d rather hear Morrissey whine
than to face my own materiality of being alive.

when my world ends,
i don’t want it to be from a shot to the head
or an environment that kills me in earnestness
or even just peacefully laying in bed:

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the position of my said

A poem about driving somewhere specific very early in the morning.

mary-jane and acetaminophen:
that’s what i’m on
as i’m cruising one-hundred-and-ten
kilometers-an-hour
through an atmospheric storm…

yeeeEEEEEEE-HAAAAWWWWWWW!

i’m wearing year-old prescriptions i’ve hardly had on
to increase my vision like 8K VR
as if ’twere a simulator of Schrodinger’s Cat
and if i’m speaking unequivocally,
i can hardly see.
“where’s your position of safety now,
Mister Ex First-Aider?”

my radio is supposed to tell me what song is playing
but the signal is shit in the valley
as the RDS for the country station proudly declares
the Taylor Swift marathon is never-ending.
i suppose there’s a part of me who’s proud
he can’t differentiate between her works
like a true Swiftie could avow
though i still know what a Chalamet looks like
behind that bottle of Chanel number bleu,
interrupting a new episode of “Hot Bench” on the tube,
as much as i don’t want to,
and stand in observance of Lynch’s
over Villeneuve’s “Dune”;

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my weenis is on the table

A poem.

not all femicentric stories of woe
have to include their version of Romeo,
but the fact my fantasy mind upholds
is that every straight male tries to manifest that one
who will get on their hands and knees without
anything needing to be
said or done –
a natural proclivity to procreate

that still will take
generations to satiate.
i won’t be around that late:
when sex is either so criminally problematic
or we’ve all turned into reprobates.
oh wait…

on the news there’s a reprint
about a local school district’s teaching assistant
who got fired for her OnlyFans account.
keeping in mind this is a story involving children,
the real brief was the outlet shared her online pseudonym –
ladies if y’all wondering where yer dads is at,
’cause now the damn media has me thinking:

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